


Fight Another Day

by appalachian_fireflies



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Back rubs, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Cuddling & Snuggling, Discussion of addiction, M/M, Medication, discussion of pain meds, passing mention of eugenics ideals, triggering for anyone with a narcotics addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5386100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appalachian_fireflies/pseuds/appalachian_fireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve hates his pain medication nearly as much as he craves it.  Bucky is getting ready to go to Basic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight Another Day

Bucky hears it so rarely he doesn’t recognize it at first, thinks that maybe the stifled sobs are from Caroline downstairs when he puts his coat on the hook. He looks at himself in the mirror by the sink, wipes the lipstick off his cheek, gets a glass of water to rinse the stale taste of cheap liquor from his mouth. He should probably shower with how he smells, but it’s damned cold out in the hallway and he doesn’t want to open the door to let the rest of the world in, now that he’s home. He takes a minute to get in a good breath, get himself steady. 

He can still hear the muffled, angry sobs coming from the bedroom, and knows if Steve’s heard him, he probably doesn’t want Bucky anywhere near him. Bucky gets another glass of water and reaches up into the back of their cabinet, pulling out the small bottle by feel. He shakes out one of the pills and puts the bottle away. 

He gives the door a cursory knock before he comes in. It could be that he’s wrong, in which case he’ll slip the pill into his pocket and pretend it was never there to begin with. But he doubts it. He doesn’t know quite why he has a sense for it; it’s rare that Steve will get so worked up he’s crying, but he’s always pissed when it comes to this. The only other time he’s seen him cry was when his mom passed, and that was pure grief, while it lasted. 

Steve’s got his face buried in the pillow to quiet the noise, and his good ear is covered by the fabric. He sits up immediately when he hears the door, rubbing his face on the pillow as he turns like Bucky won’t notice. He folds up small when he sits, fingernails digging into his sleep pants. 

“Hey,” Steve greets. “How’s Lorna?” 

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, puts the water glass down on the nightstand. He cuts to the chase, opens his hand until his palm is flat. The little white pill is innocuous, but Steve stares at it like he’s watching a snake. 

“Don’t need it,” Steve says shortly. This close, Bucky can feel him shaking, subtle. He shakes all over when it hurts this bad, just like the pain’s all over. 

“Steve,” Bucky starts, argument ready. Steve cuts him off. 

“Went to the Communist’s meeting,” Steve says, curling in on himself. “Union’s salting for metal workers. Ladies’ Garment Workers is going strong.”

Bucky waits patiently for him to get to his point. 

“I wanted to go,” Steve says finally, and that’s all Bucky’s getting. Steve knew the weather was too cold for his joints and his lungs. He knew the walk was too far for his back and his heart. He knew it was too late for his head to be out where it was noisy and bright. He wanted to go. 

Bucky sighs. “Listen, pal. I know you don’t want it. But you don’t gotta-“ 

Steve laughs. “You think I don’t want it? I want it.” He stares at the pill, looks away again. “Sometimes I want it more than anything in the world. You don’t, you don’t understand.” 

_Try me_ , Bucky waits, raises his eyebrows. 

“I want it,” Steve shakes his head, “I want it _all the time_.” His hands ball up into fists. “It hurts _all the time_ , it never stops. Ever. I want," he grimaces, "I want to know what it's like for just ten minutes without it there. What it would feel like to have my head clear, 's like static. If it ever gets even a little better, all I can think is that it'll be back soon." He straightens his shoulders, shakes his head again. "But I can’t take it, cause then it’ll mess up my stomach worse, and I- these pills, they could buy your sister a new coat.” 

“That’s not it,” Bucky says abruptly. “I mean,” he backtracks, mouth ahead of himself, though he knows somehow it’s true. “You act like it’s a moral failing.”

Steve presses his hands to his temples, digs his knuckles into the top of his head. “I don’t need it,” he says, stubborn. “I can’t need it.” 

Bucky offers him the glass of water. “Not all the time,” he allows. “Just sometimes. Tonight. If you don’t get good sleep, you’ll get sick.” 

Steve looks at the pill again. “I hate it,” he says, honest. He sighs, picks it up, and swallows it dry.

Bucky wiggles the water glass at him till he drinks from it, then sets it back down. Then he tugs at Steve’s shirt, only for Steve to stiffen and shuffle away. 

“C’mon,” Bucky wheedles. “I want to help.” 

Steve huffs a laugh. “Sure you do,” he says, full of self-loathing. Bucky leans over and tugs at his shirt. 

“C’moon. Stoppit,” Bucky plays tag with Steve’s hands. 

“I’m not,” Steve starts, stops. “I don’t need it.” 

It sounds an awful lot like _I don’t deserve it_ ; he only doesn’t say it out loud because he doesn't want to hear Bucky try and talk him out of it. Bucky takes advantage of the distraction to pull Steve’s shirt over his head, and give him a gentle push onto his belly. Steve grumbles, but he lets him do it. 

“Uh huh,” Bucky says, hoisting himself over Steve’s legs and pressing his thumbs into the spot where his shoulders meet his neck. Steve makes a noise, and Bucky wants to lean down and kiss him. He doesn’t dare; not like this. Steve can’t stand to be treated like he’s pitiable. And maybe he's afraid of it; sometimes it's like he thinks that if he pushes Bucky away enough, he'll prove to himself he's still got his independence. 

Bucky loses himself in the press of his thumb down the lines of the trapezius, over and over again as it loosens, chasing knots into the deltoid. He watches the roll of Steve’s thin, loose skin, squeezes the pain out of the bony nub of his shoulder joint. 

“I’m useless,” Steve says, startling Bucky. He’s sounding a little clearer now at least, less like he’s fighting for words through a fog of pain. 

“Hush,” Bucky chides, like if he says so he can stop Steve from thinking it. “You’re not thinking right. It’ll be better in the morning.” 

“Sure, Buck,” Steve says softly. 

It’s a lie, partly, and Steve sure as hell knows it. He’s not gonna be _better_ , ever. Till the day his heart or his lungs or whatever part of his body gives up on him. 

Still, though, Bucky doesn’t bet it’s going to be any time soon. He’s watched Steve burn with fever for days, declared good as dead by doctors and given last rites by priests so sure it must be his time. But Steve gets up again every day and fights, and fights, and fights. He’s too stubborn to die. Bucky’s grateful for that; given all the talk around him about what makes a man and Steve’s need to prove himself, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for Steve to decide he’d be better off giving up anyhow. 

Bucky feels a stab of ice in his chest at the thought, his careful meditative blankness as he works muscles through his fingertips receding. 

_They threw the bodies in the pit,_ he remembers his grandfather saying about the Pennsylvania Railroad. _Put the rails right down over top of them. ___

__He tries to focus on the warmth of his hands, how real Steve is beneath him, his jaw still clenched in pain, the bones of his hands surprisingly solid for his frame._ _

__He thinks about his dad, half blind from mustard gas, never quite breathing right again. _My body’s expendable_ , he thinks. _They’ll throw me down and run over me happy as they would anyone else._ He knows why Steve wants to join the army. He prays they never take him. _ _

__They’re happy to come for him, though. They’ll take his body to throw at bullets and bombs and gas, and he’ll smile and tell Steve not to do anything stupid ‘till he gets back._ _

__He’s working his way down Steve’s sciatica on the left side, automatic, when Steve lets out a small noise and a sigh. He feels the muscles let go, sees the brackets around Steve’s mouth loosen. Bucky’s been at it for maybe twenty minutes now, and the meds have finally hit._ _

__Bucky can feel relief flood through him just watching Steve letting the pain go. He wishes he could do more, fix his heart and his lungs and his joints and his head, see for the first time how Steve might walk and even run without gritting his teeth through it, falling down at night to get just enough rest to start another day._ _

__At least he can do this. Sometimes._ _

__Steve blinks at him, and Bucky feels his breath catch just looking at him, how alive he is, the little movements of his head that make him Steve. His eyes are clear enough to make Bucky look away, though it doesn't hurt the way it did when Steve looked like he was fighting his last few steps up a hill of broken glass._ _

__“’S this what you feel like all the time?”_ _

__“What,” Bucky asks automatically, then processes the question. “I don’t know, punk. Probably.”_ _

__Steve rolls his fingers, pulls his arms above his head to feel the stretch all the way down his spine, moves like a cat finding their comfy spot. “Doesn’t matter,” he says finally, like he’s saying it to himself. “Won’t change nothing.”_ _

__Bucky wants to laugh at Steve’s tone, like he’s dared to kneel before God and ask some excess by even thinking about not being in pain. Sometimes, in his heart, Bucky knows there can’t be a benevolent God that created a good man like Steve Rogers to have him suffer this much._ _

__Bucky pulls off his belt and strips to his boxers, then gets in bed, wraps himself around Steve to spoon. The heat helps his joints and tense muscles, but he's at least honest enough with himself to know that ain't why he does it._ _

__“Aw, c’mon,” Steve complains, shuffling away._ _

__It breaks the spell of his warm skin and the safety of the room. Bucky can feel the clutches of the war closing in on him, imagines metal talons wrapping around his body, inevitable. He chases Steve._ _

__“Please,” he says, and Steve stops._ _

__“Fine,” Steve huffs for show, and Bucky wraps an arm around Steve's middle, tucks his nose up against the nape of his neck. He relaxes just at the smell of him, the warmth of Steve safe in his arms, finally relaxed._ _

__Steve drops off easily now that he’s no longer fighting; the frustration of losing ground to the pain is at bay, for now. Bucky follows his example, knows he didn't have a chance of fighting his own battles in the first place. The world’s gonna take him wherever it wants to soon enough. He closes his eyes._ _

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like i choose my titles by going "what is the most cheesy and overused title i can think of OH WAIT I KNOW."


End file.
